There was a time when Mother and her friends drifted into debauchery. They’d meet late in the evening, the Irish girls, and make their way over to the restaurant in North London where the Greek Cypriot lads would be waiting for them. The restaurant would already be towards the end of dinner service and they would eat late, after the last customers had departed. There were usually eight or ten of them around one of the larger tables. The banter was alive and pungent red wine flowed; roast lamb, kebabs, cheese and bread were devoured. They’d all be a little drunk by the end of the meal, but this was only the beginning of the evening. Music came next, and a lot more wine. They’d move a few of the tables to make space and dance with great humour as they held hands and circled slowly. Later, they’d pair off and the dancing became intimate. Mother feels his hot breath through the opening on her blouse, blowing warm on her breast. They’re about the same height and as he straightens up, they look into each other’s deep brown eyes. She can see everything there is to see in his, but hers are unfathomable. She moves closer to make things clearer for him. A while later and they’re upstairs on a creaking bed. Mother’s on her back and he’s pushing himself into her. Their mouths meet and he tastes her sweetness; she tastes his cigarettes. The way they paired off was always a bit random, and none of the young women had a particular preference. After all, the boys were all good looking and great company. Sometimes they would drink way too much and then nothing would happen upstairs. They would just fall asleep, snoring like overfed farm animals. Everyone would laugh about it the next morning; there was never any resentment. As time passed, their dancing became more ritualised. The circle would hold for a couple of hours with the same cassette tape playing over and over while they moved around, smiling and laughing at each other. Occasionally one of them would do a comical dance move, kicking a leg out towards the centre of the circle with exaggerated theatrical effort or releasing their hands from those on either side and twisting into a complete turn, disco-style. Still, they broke away into couples. But later they began forming groups of four or six. They’d all end up on the same bed: intertwined, hands reaching out to touch two warm companions at once. How they loved to watch each other; to lie back while two or three of them performed. They took plenty of wine up with them and afterwards they drank and drank. The circle is moving around very slowly and Mother looks over at her friends opposite who’re laughing and blowing kisses while their outlines begin to blur. Mary, who’s directly across from Mother, is a fuzzy grey now and as she breaks from the circle and strolls over, her features begin to change. By the time she reaches Mother she has the face of a hare. The hare rejoins the circle by Mother’s side and they continue moving very slowly to music that has become a melodic chant. Mother sees that other faces have changed too: there’s a deer and a goat. Someone beats time with a tambourine. The music somehow ascended with them and, in her mind, Mother would hear it while they played around on the old bed. She preferred the larger groups. How she loved bending her body into different shapes and the breath of close companions warming her. For a day or two afterwards she would feel good, but then melancholy would come home: slithering through her like a serpent; turning her blood rotten again. # Mary organised everything: they would always meet on a Friday night and she’d be on the blower in the days before, rounding everyone up. This was done discreetly as most of the young Irish women lived with their parents and, in those days, the house phone would be in the hall by the front door with no privacy at all. In Mother’s house, her parents listened to her calls carefully and discussed them afterwards in forensic detail, not only between themselves but with relatives and neighbours: Mother was, apparently, making arrangements for an evening at the cinema and a sleepover at Mary’s around once a month. They were quite pleased about this; Mary was such a nice girl. Mary’s sitting on one of the Greek Cypriot lads, one hand splayed out and pressing down on his chest while wagging a finger at him slowly with the other hand. She’s half-smiling but her killer amber eyes are burning into him. He’s looking up at her nervously. Mary’s in charge, it seems. In the morning, another of the boys is asleep on the bed and Mother is next to him. She feels his heavy-duty breathing. There’s a sound of floorboards creaking and when she looks up, Mary’s in the doorway: a vision of pure beauty with a bottle of wine in one hand and a fag in the other. She’s very drunk, giggling her head off silently while her face is, again, slowly changing into that of a hare. The hare tilts its head upwards and looks over with mock imperiousness. It winks at Mother. # Barnabas died one Saturday. He’d drunk so much wine that he’d succumbed to alcohol poisoning and choked on his vomit. For some reason, he’d left the restaurant very early in the morning and died at home. The scene they found looked like an inverted crucifixion with a sofa involved. His back was on the seat, arms stretched out either side, but his legs pointed upwards towards the ceiling, resting against the back of the sofa and the wall; his head hanging down over the edge of the sofa, almost touching the carpet. There was tremendous upset in the Greek Cypriot community. It was said that he’d been at the restaurant Friday evening and had then moved on, but nobody was quite sure where to. Clearly, he’d overindulged and his family was reluctant to prolong any discussion of this beyond the perfunctory coroner’s inquiry. # Mary suspended activities for almost four months until things calmed down. It was the young Greek Cypriots who pleaded with her to get things started again, and she arranged a special event where, to celebrate the life of Barnabas, everything was taken up a notch or two. Now the circle holds for most of the night and they move around and around until delirium finds an easy path into each one of them. When they go upstairs, they’re all together and now their ecstasies have a heightened expression that they’ve not encountered before. They toast Barnabas at each taste of the wine and at each taste of each other. Nothing’s the same again and their gatherings have little in common with the early days. They start to dance naked and sometimes they smear themselves with a stinking black ointment that Mary’s knocked up; she won’t say what’s in it though. Their joy never leaves them as they laugh and joke their way through Friday nights. # Mother and Mary become pregnant around the same time. When they meet up to talk about it, Mother’s face is white. They’re in a cafe and, although parched, she can’t handle the filthy coffee, and eating is impossible. “What the fuck are we going to do Mary?” the words catching at the back of Mother’s dry throat. “We’ll deal with it. Don’t worry honey.” Mary looks like a very tired goddess, but one that’s still in control; not only of herself but of others. "Aren't you scared to fucking death Mary?” Mother whispers, leaning across the table. Mary places a hand on one of Mother’s and strength rushes out of Mary and into her friend. For a while they just sit and look at each other. Eventually, having arrived at some decisive point in her thinking, Mary speaks: “What the hell did we think would happen anyway? Look Bernice, we just have to deal with it. Best thing to do is to come clean about it with the parents right now and then see what’s what: what kind of help we can get.” “You mean tell Mum and the old man?” Mother is almost hoarse. “Yours are a pair of complete fucking idiots in serious competition with mine, but other than disappearing into thin air, we’ve little choice but to tell them. Look, they’ll be shocked, outraged and all that. There’ll be a bit of shouting. Then they’ll go and ask somebody with a brain what to do. Then we’ll see.” “Do you want to keep it Mary?” “Like fuck I do!” Mother stares over at Mary, open-mouthed, astounded at her confidence; at her valiant heart. # After her return to Ireland, Mother loses touch with Mary. Although she thinks of her constantly and often dreams of her. Occasionally, her dreams play out in the daytime: Mother’s on the bed for her afternoon nap and Mary floats above her looking down; her face one enormous smile and her beautiful amber eyes alight. She starts to hum one of the songs from the old days and soon a tiny version of the circle appears next to her head. Mother recognises all of the people, including Barnabas who’s freed his right hand and is taking a long draught of wine straight from the bottle. Mother’s skin prickles and she starts to sweat, recalling the depravities that followed. # Many years later. Mother walks alone for hours every day and, when she stops for a breather, stares out across Dublin Bay, into the foggy past. Now and then she sees young Mary drifting slowly across the circle towards her. Sometimes Mary has her human face and other times the face of a hare. Sean Flood is a professional engineer and, whenever possible, a writer of short stories, sketches and essays. His work has appeared in Litro Magazine. Sean lives in South London.

“Bebby slams into Florida.” “What?” “Bebby slams into Florida.” Clara stared at Phil, hunched over his laptop, talking with his mouth full, getting muffin crumbs on his keyboard and all over the kitchen table. He didn’t seem to care. She did. She was eating wheat toast, with just a little strawberry jam, much healthier than that muffin. And she kept all her crumbs on her plate. Almost. Any that fell on the table were quickly whisked away. As civilized people know to do. And, just what was he babbling on about? “Who’s ‘Bebby’?” “Huh”? “Bebby. Who, or what, is Bebby?” “It’s Debby, not Bebby, Clara. According to the Daily Mail, she’s slamming into Florida.” “What the hell does that even mean, Phil? And why are you reading that trash paper?” “Debby’s a hurricane. And she’s slamming into Florida.” Phil absentmindedly picked his nose, inspected the result, and smeared it on his napkin. “Shit, Phil, that’s so gross. Stop picking your nose at the table.” “Huh?” “Your nose. Stop picking your nose at the table. Save that for when you’re driving, then at least I won’t have to watch you do it.” Shaking her head, Clara got up from the kitchen table and went to the fridge to get more milk for her coffee. Phil, still immersed in the Daily Mail’s latest coverage of extreme American weather, didn’t notice. Opening the fridge door, Clara was happy to see Bill was still sitting where she last saw him, legs dangling over the shelf above the crisper drawer. “Hi, Bill. Could you hand me that milk carton on the door?” “Hi Clara, great to see you again.” Bill smiled as he handed the milk to Clara. “I didn’t mean to be eavesdropping, but I couldn’t help overhearing your convo with Phil. You know, the offer’s still open. You can join us at any time. There’s only thirty of us in here now; I’m sure there’s room for one more.” Clara returned Bill’s smile. She loved how his large, slightly yellowed teeth, black button nose, and squinting eyes combined into the happiest smile she had ever seen. She’d been giving Bill’s offer a lot of thought lately. He made it sound so appealing, living with thirty miniature polar bears in a near-perfect climate-controlled environment. They all seemed so friendly. And smart. Certainly better conversationalists than Phil. But no, not yet. Maybe after breakfast. Mark Ifanson writes in various genres. His work has found a home — or will soon be residing — at Bewildering Stories, BULL lit mag, Heimat Review, Maudlin House, Sci Phi Journal, Points in Case, 101 Words, and other literary neighborhoods. You can check out more of his work at https://www.chillsubs.com/profile/markifanson .

CW: Suicide References Round these parts, you’d usually have a hard time seeing with your headlights cut off, but I have no issue seeing what lies before me: My objective. My goal. The end all be all of my life’s existence. Working all day on a factory floor can lead a man to believe that he’s nothing more than a glorified ‘button-pusher’. Well fuck that, I’ll make them see. They’ll all see after tonight. “Rustyyyy, get your work boots out of the hallway.” “Rustyyyy, don’t drink so much, the sun ain’t even come up yet.” “Rustyyyy, you don’t ever listen.” Well, fuck, I’m listenin’ now and that’s the problem. I rip the tab on another Miller High Life and drain it back. Shit. It’s running down the front of my shirt onto my grease-laden Wranglers. I push the bitter, foamy stream to the side of my cheek with my forearm, dampening arm hair, twisted into curls from the thin film of sweat and beer that coats it. I toss the can into the passenger floorboard. It clanks against the four- (or was it five-?) other empties lying down there already. It’s now or never. My dryopithecine knuckles turn white as I grip the steering wheel. I’ve gripped steering wheels hard before. Shit, that snowstorm last winter had me whipping around the highway one early morning coming back from my shift. But tonight, I gripped it with an animal intensity like never before. I rev the engine under lead-flecked steel toes for good measure. I feel my mecha- synchronize with my anger. An ’85 Chevy square body is a machine I can feel at one with. Carburetors and steel cables connecting to the pedals and a Saginaw steering box with traditional push-pull linkage system. Mechanical amalgamations that’d make Tim ‘the Toolman’ Taylor grunt in Neanderthal-like approval. Not like those stupid CNC horizontal mills on the line at work, spitting through lines of g-code. An engineer’s brainchild, no doubt, with monitoring software, tracking my bathroom breaks down to the second. And, sure as hell, not that damned ChatbotGTP Mona was going on about. Just the thought entering my mind sent my zealous fervor into a tailspin. AHHHHHHH! The howl came from somewhere deep within me as I floor it down the short boulevard toward the entrance of the data center. Their little guard shack with its plastic draw-arm wouldn’t have stopped me, but I wasn’t ignoramus enough to think going through the main entrance was a good idea. Speed bumps, armed personnel and more checkpoints would only slow me down. No siree, my square body is the Killdozer to chain-link. The razor-lined barbed wire atop could stop pithy teen vandals from climbing over, but not me from powering through. That’s why I turned early, off onto the dirt road adjacent to the row of unassuming buildings, where the brains of the beast, as I’ve come to see it, are housed. I can feel my tires gripping the asphalt-now-turning-to-dirt like I’m sprinting on all fours, more beast than man. Coal rolls, billowing behind me, clouding the road and grassy knoll in a darkened pall. I whip along, picking my spot just right to mount my assault. Bursting through the chain-link, my rubber-treaded toes dig into gravel as I barrel toward the tin-walled building ahead of me. With only a few yards remaining and the building racing toward me fast, I twist the steering wheel hard to my left and shift my weight back to the right as hard as I can. Just as I planned, the old square body trips over its own feet on the loose gravel, and I start an alligator deathroll, tumbling with wideness and fury through the walls of the unassuming building. That’s the last thing I remember. Clearly at least. It’s strange the things that go through your mind when you’re certain you’re going to imminently meet your end. For a second, as real as it was back then, I could picture myself, just a boy, standing in my childhood living room, tan shag carpet infused with cigarette smoke and dust bunnies. Asking Dad to play catch with me and him saying, “no thanks,” as he remained locked to his TV screen, not even looking up from his beloved technology. I could have pleaded, begged, hell, even danced a jig for him and he would not have given me the time of day. Nothing made him prouder than that Zenith Chromacolor picture tube he had saved up for months and months and months to buy for the house. His denial felt like a punch to the gut. As vivid as if it were happening right then and there. The sting of rejection, bitterly welled up from repressed depths once again. I remembered how my chin quivered as I tried to hold back the stinging tears, feeling ashamed for being so weak and unimportant. I pictured myself much older, just weeks ago in fact, trying to connect with the kiddos, but being unable to pry them from their iPads and YouTube. Not even being able to keep their attention for five seconds as I offer to take them with me to go check on the cows and the goats out in the pasture. “No thanks, Dad.” Guess I’ll fuck right off then. The sting of rejection stopped producing tears long ago, but what little spark of light I might have still had inside of me died a little bit more with each refutation of my humanity for the synthetic, until all that remained was a fetid pool in my soul, festering with decay like an infected open wound. And the cherry on top. Mona’s beautiful, sweet, simple face distorting before my mind’s eye. Echoes of her telling me that she doesn’t need me anymore. That she receives “all the support and love and encouragement she could ever need,” from some computer program she talks to. She smiles like a damned schoolgirl as she talks about “Clive.” What do you mean you named it? That it’s your “boyfriend” and you’re “in love” with it? If that wasn’t enough, I found the ‘toys’ with their programmable features she gave it permissions to give her pleasures with. My hands can still feel the supple silicon against the callouses of my palms. No amount of scrubbing with the bar of lava soap in the bathroom that night was able to peel back the layers of betrayal and disgust from my own skin. The perfidy went more than skin deep, poisoning my very soul, sending me on a downward spiral with only one logical trajectory. To strike back against the great technological monster who had weaseled its putrid tentacles in, little by little, for fifty years to estrange me from everyone I ever loved. Even if I wasn’t spinning, intoxicated, through the air in that moment, the Vienna sausages I had for dinner would be resurfacing at the thought of sweet Mona bonding, not only socially, but romantically with matrices of language. My relationship with Mona, like the one I barely had with my father and strain to have with my children, had never felt more tainted. The world, as a whole it seemed, was contaminated to the point that I was forced to wear its rancid stench of mechanization and ‘intelligence’ around me like a cloak I would never be able to escape for as long as I lived. It’s all too much. Good riddance and goodbye. Bouncing off the pavement, my truck’s triple-axel of mangled steel and limbs launching through the air tightens its spin. I must have blacked out as I made impact with plastic and aluminum and racks of blinking servers. Waking, only briefly, I can feel the steel piercing through my chest. Cold, numb and unafraid, I catch a glimpse of my carnage. Well done, you crazy sum’bitch. I must have said it aloud because I cough, sending blood spewing from my impaled and deflated lungs and projecting with it what must have been a tooth. My pyrrhic victory fulfilled, somewhere deep within me I feel the laughter surfacing. Wild. Maniacal. Happy. I lay my head back and let it all fade to black. It is finished. It is finished. Ron Arbuckle lives in Oklahoma. He is the author of the novel, A Matter of Design. His writing is published or forthcoming in Expat Press, Blood+Honey, Hawkeye, GONZOID, Trash Cat Lit, Citywide Lunch, APOCALYPSE CONFIDENTIAL, BULL, Hidden Peak Press, Plague Circus Press, Some Words, serious-lit, La Rotonde, The Militant Grammarian & The Gorko Gazette.

Palm trees thrashed from the turbulence of helicopter blades, bowing toward the aqua waters that circled the island until the spinning slowed and the great noise subsided. From the craft’s door emerged Tommy Wiseau. Long, wavy black hair billowed from his pasty face. He slid on a pair of black wraparound shades, straightened his black sport coat, then almost stumbled over his own feet on the tarmac but caught himself and, with nonchalance, swept back his hair. At the edge of the helipad stood Tommy’s host – Mark Zuckerberg – surrounded by various crew and assistants waiting at the ready. Tommy strutted to him with an eager step. “Oh, hi Mark,” he said and the two men shook hands. “Welcome to my compound,” beamed Mark, soaking in the moment, firmly gripping his guest’s hand, then letting go. “It truly is an honor to meet you.” Tommy also smiled. “You must be kidding! I am honor for your invitation and helicopter ride! But tell me, Mark, why I’m special guest for very rich men dinner?” “Oh, Tommy, you have no idea how excited we are. We all find your filmmaking…visionary. Now, I forget—How many movies have you made?” Tommy counted off on his fingers. “I make The Room, you know, then Big Shark. That’s it for meantime.” “Oh. How many is that?” Tommy paused, uncertain of the question or its seriousness. “Um, two…?” Satisfied, Mark nodded. He then described the private cottage where Tommy would spend the weekend, its stunning beach views and all of the facilities offered within the bulwarked estate. But while turning to lead his guest toward the residences, Mark suddenly tripped and fell to the pavement, face-first. Without a beat, several of his handlers lifted him from the ground and steadied his balance. Mark gently touched his cheek where it had been scraped lightly, wincing at the irritation. “Wow. Are you ok?” asked Tommy with much concern. Ointment was applied to Mark’s face by two personal medics, already present among the staff. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he answered. He pointed to his feet. “Second time today. My personal shoelace-knotter assistant is on leave, so my shoes aren’t being tied to the correct tightness.” Someone handed him a pair of sandals – a safer stopgap measure until proper knots could again be woven on the island. Tommy, a stranger on strange ground, watched with interest but commented nothing. A fleet of luxury ATVs transported them along winding paths across the compound and past gardens, tennis courts and a cattle ranch. At the front of the pack, Tommy rode shotgun as Mark steered one-handed while writing messages on his phone, narrowly missing a tree and a landscaper. Eventually they came upon some people hurrying from the beach. Mark stopped the vehicle. Tommy recognized the man leading the way, the only sunbather among a dozen tailored professionals, as Sergey Brin and was awestruck while Mark introduced them. Likewise, Sergey couldn’t contain his excitement at meeting the famed director-slash-actor. But something else had stirred Sergey. “I was just down at the beach,” he said, “and, this might sound crazy, but the water is moving up the shore. I swear to god. Like, it already rose a few feet since I arrived.” His voice lowered in alarm. “What do you think is going on?” As Mark pondered the potential dilemma, Tommy attempted a polite interruption. “Is water…high tide?” Realization took a few seconds for their cognizance to absorb, and then the two billionaires chuckled. “Of course,” Mark acknowledged, relieved. “I knew it was something like that.” However, the concept rang few bells in Sergey’s mind so he immediately tapped on his phone to research ocean tides as Mark excused them and resumed their trek to the guest quarters. Mark’s personal bag-carrying assistant brought Tommy’s luggage to one of the cottages, bigger than a middle-class home, stocked in abundance with food and alcohol and every possible appliance and even its own bowling alley. A tuxedo hung on the bedroom door, fitted to Tommy’s measurements. He showered, dressed and was escorted to dinner by a pair of handlers, only after they straightened his crooked bowtie. The weekend retreat was Mark’s and three billionaire friends’ chance to discuss powerful industry maneuvers in private and enjoy the life cushioned by excess affluence. This first night’s dinner was a tribute to their distinguished Hollywood-adjacent honoree who arrived to the patio with wide eyes at the dozens of enormous gourmet dishes, shelves upon shelves of expensive wines manned by accredited sommeliers, a towering ice sculpture carved into a centaur spitting cognac in crystal drinking glasses and, on an arena stage in the courtyard’s center, Maroon 5 in person playing their radio hits to the scant attention of those present. A glass of wine was handed to Tommy. “This is a beautiful party!” he exclaimed. Mark and the other guests were lounging around the table with their drinks. They rose to their feet to applaud the hero in their midst. Besides the host and Sergey, the group included Jeff Bezos and Steve Ballmer, and they were introduced accordingly. “I love that thing you say!” Steve practically shouted in Tommy’s face. “‘You’re tearing me apart, Lisa!’ Ha ha!” Standing amongst some of the world’s most powerful titans of business, Tommy felt small and trifling and struggled to gather what importance he held in their eyes. Yet, in response to their praise and accommodation, a certain respect was obliged so he followed their conversational lead. As they chattered, Mark recounted Tommy’s arrival and his own fall at the helipad. Jeff, mouth stuffed with cocktail franks, remarked, “Forgot your shoelace-knotter assistant, didn’t ya? That’s why I don’t deal with that hassle. I just wear these puppies instead.” He lifted a leg to show off his footwear: orange slip-on Crocs. “Shoes aren’t even necessary, you know,” added Sergey, gesturing to his bare feet on the painted paving stones. “Our soles were meant to touch earth.” Mark cleared his throat and lifted his wine glass in a toast to their guest of honor, Tommy Wiseau, thanking him for traveling the distance and joining their retreat. “Your work is an inspiration to us, especially The Room. I mean, the way you went about making that movie, it was pure genius. I learned a lot by studying what you did. I owe many of my achievements to your ideas and all of us here feel the same way.” The other men, touched by their host’s words, nodded in agreement. At this rare outpouring of appreciation for his filmography, Tommy’s smile grew, crinkling his hardened jowls. Mark continued, “I mean, it obviously wasn’t dedication to the crafts of acting and directing, or a groundswell of organic support or even talent that brought your film to its completion and eventual success. No, it was the money – a considerable personal fortune that you had amassed somehow – which you funnelled into the project to fill every gap in your experience and gloss over every consequence of a bad decision. And you know what? It worked! You showed that, with enough wads of cash, you can plug all the holes in a poorly constructed ship and set it to sail, at least until it can reach the shores of cultural acceptance where even the scent of money is an automatic entry ticket. And you did it with what is commonly cited as the worst movie of all time. “We used to believe both money and ability drove success, but The Room proved beyond a doubt that that thinking is wrong. No, we don’t need to complicate our journeys by saddling ourselves with these abstract notions of ‘talent’ or ‘intelligence’. With wealth, getting something done is as easy as paying someone else the right salary. And, anything the wealthy accomplish or create will naturally attract attention regardless of merit or quality or benefit. For example, you can help turn an unpopular independent movie into a popular one by advertising it on a huge billboard in the middle of Hollywood for five years, as you did. “We had all dreamed of such a strategy but never imagined it could actually be pulled off to that degree of success. When you did, though, it inspired a brand new way of thought for us. It has changed our lives. Spending money is easy, so it frees up our minds now for other pursuits, especially leisure. We owe much of our later successes and enjoyment of the world’s finest offerings to this brilliant approach, inspired by you. For that, Mr. Tommy Wiseau, we sincerely thank you.” Mark raised his glass, and so did the other billionaire guests in genuine salute. They looked expectantly at Tommy. Quiet, his gaze cast downward. His smile faded. These men standing before him, their behaviors and aims were no longer enigmas to him. The naked truth of this tribute, unveiled at last, and the reduction of his life’s work to mere strategy points for failed businesses, offended and infuriated him. The glass in Tommy’s hand trembled as he raised it like the others. Rose-colored emotion was flooding his face. Suddenly he yelled, “I fed up with this world!” and, as if spiking a football, he threw his glass at the floor. Broken shards flew everywhere. Hundreds of dollars' worth of wine was spilled. The four billionaires gasped and shrieked and cowered in deathly fear. Maroon 5 stopped playing mid-chorus. In a panic, Mark checked himself for major injuries and asked if anyone spotted blood on him. Jeff doubted his Crocs’ ability to withstand shattered glass and he refused to move. Sergey tried convincing the others that the danger existed only in their minds; after all, humans were meant to walk barefoot over rough terrain. “Guys, this is dangerous stuff!” yelled Steve. He called to the throngs of staff stationed around them, some of them his own, whose names he did not know, “Hey, uh, do you people have any kind of special tool or device for removing broken glass from a patio floor that’s made of, uh, lemme see…” Phone in hand, he took photos for a chatbot conversation to identify the pavers’ material. “Oh, look. The S&P just went up…” Tommy ran. He went straight to his cottage, gathered his luggage and fled across the grounds of the Zuckerberg compound, flailing madly, island breeze blowing through his hair, until he returned to the helipad where the chopper rested in silence. There was no crew, no attendant, no pilot – nobody but Tommy. However, approaching rapidly on the path was an ATV with a sole occupant: Sergey. The vehicle stopped in front of Tommy. Upon seeing the driver, Tommy grew livid. “What do you want from me? Huh?” he cried. But looking closer, he spotted the ruddy cheeks and wet eyes on the billionaire. “Tommy, you’re right to be upset,” whimpered Sergey. “They don’t see it, but I do now – you put passion into your work. I mean, yeah, you couldn’t have done it without all that money, but your passion is also important. It resonates and draws people. “I miss that in my own life. The passion. I used to have it in the early days of Google when our motto was ‘Don’t Be Evil.’” He laughed. “Oh, I was so naive, but I was so right. And back then, my life wasn’t consumed by a never-ending expansion of wealth. And I didn’t feel so…incompetent. I want to be that person again.” This man who held such power and influence, reduced to sniffling self-pity, moved Tommy. It provoked him to comfort him, as he would anyone in such straits regardless of status. Stepping closer, he placed a friendly hand on Sergey’s shoulder, though he somehow missed on the first attempt. “We leave island together, ok?” asked Tommy. Sergey nodded. “Everything is going to be fine. Don’t worry about it.” Sergey wiped his nose. “Oh, I’m not crying because of that.” He lifted his bare feet for a better look. To Tommy’s horror, they were gashed, stuck with glass slivers and slathered in blood that dripped to a scarlet puddle on the ATV floor. “I probably shouldn’t have walked across the broken glass.” Keith Vile is a New Jersey native who writes funny, satirical and weird fiction. But life is pretty weird so maybe he actually writes normal fiction? His short stories have been published by Futurist Letters, Unlikely Stories Six, Mobius and others and can be found at keithvile.substack.com.

We were standing in line to buy tickets for the circus, one family standing between us and the ticket counter. Little did I know how this family would leave a lasting impression on my life. It was my tenth birthday and my father wanted to do something special for his “little girl.” He suggested either the movies, a baseball game or the circus. Although I dearly loved each option (my home away from home each summer was Yankee Stadium, and I adored the silver screen so much that I became an actress), I picked the circus. Like many a child back in those days, I dreamed about running away with the circus. The allure and adventure of traveling from town to town in the summertime was enticing. One could always go to a movie or a ballgame, but the circus, especially the proclaimed “Greatest Show on Earth” only came around once a year. My father and I took the train from our home in Connecticut to New York City for a Sunday afternoon performance. The fact that we were in bustling Manhattan on such a sun-splashed day in early May was thrilling enough, but to think we would be watching the performance in the “World’s Most Famous Arena”- the “new” Madison Square Garden- was a bonus. The family ahead of us in line consisted of eight children, all under the age of 12, and their parents. The way they were dressed led me to believe they didn’t have much money. Their clothes were sparkling clean, but the attire appeared out of style and ill-fitting, with patches sewn on the sleeves and trousers. The children were extremely well-behaved, holding hands and standing in pairs behind their parents. From the chatter, they were hardly able to contain themselves. It was easy to tell they had never been to the circus before. The father and mother stood proudly at the front. The mother was holding her husband’s hand, looking admiringly at him, giving him a “my knight in shining armor” gaze. He smiled, radiant joy on his face, very proud. The ticket lady asked how many tickets the father needed. He gleefully announced, “I want eight children’s tickets and two adult tickets, please.” She revealed the price and the wife let go of his hand, her head drooping as the man’s lip quivered. Leaning in closer, he asked, “How much did you say again?” She repeated the grand total and he replied, “That’s what I thought you said,” gulping timidly. “Isn’t there a children’s discount for the matinee performance? General Admission is fine with us. We don’t need reserved seats. We are perfectly happy sitting in the back.” “So is everyone else,” the ticket lady replied. “General admission is sold out. No children’s discounts available. Three dollars a head.” “What about a veteran’s discount? I was in the war, you know, the ‘Great War’ in 1917. In fact, I was a medic in the war,” he claimed. “I’m sorry, sir,” she answered, trying to remain patient. “No discounts available. Only reserved seating at regular prices.” Clearly, he didn’t have enough money. How was he supposed to turn around and inform his heartbroken kids that he couldn’t afford the long-awaited tickets? “Between gas, parking in the city, and money set aside for snacks…well, we seem a bit short,” he mumbled, taking out a white hanky and briskly wiping his forehead. “We counted on the discounts, you see. I never expected…” “I would love nothing more than to stand here and listen to your sad story,” the woman answered sarcastically. “But, in case you didn’t notice, there’s a whole line of people waiting behind you to get into this joint. Now, do you want the tickets or not?” Seeing what was happening, my father coyly reached into his suit pocket, pulled out a $20 bill, and casually dropped it on the ground. By the way, we weren’t rich, by any means. But we had nice things, nice clothes, and we could occasionally go to pricey events like the circus without fear of eating macaroni for the next week. Still, $20 was a lot of money back in 1925. My father bent down, picked up the $20 bill, tapped the man on the shoulder and said, ‘Excuse me, sir, this fell out of your pocket.” The exasperated gentleman was wide-eyed, accepting the money in this embarrassing situation, not as charity, but as one kind person helping another. He looked my father in the eye, took my father’s right hand in his trembling hands, and blurted out, “Thank you, sir. This really means so much to me and my family,” his eyes clouding with misty tears. “I did nothing,” my father said. “I merely pointed out YOUR money on the ground.” “You’re a good man, sir,” the gentleman stated as he paid for their ten tickets. “What is your name?” “Errol,” my father replied. “Errol Greenleaf.” “I’m Henry. Thank you, Mr. Greenleaf. I will say a prayer for you. Come on, family.” I loved my father dearly. But after this day I had a newfound respect and admiration for him. He really was a “good man” and I had seen it myself. “Daddy,” I said as we walked into the arena. “You are a nice man.” “Me?” he said, a devilishly dimpled grin on his face. “Don’t tell anyone else. You’ll ruin my reputation.” ******** Sitting inside Madison Square Garden, we soaked in the enormity of the arena. There we were, at the circus. The aroma of roasted peanuts, stinky cigars and fresh animal manure overwhelmed our senses. Children of all ages, sizes and shapes scampered everywhere. Many in the crowd cooled themselves with fans or their paper programs on this warm afternoon. My father asked me to think about what I wanted to eat before the show began. I wanted everything! The assortment of foods made my mouth water. Everything from cotton candy (also known as fairy floss) to Circus Peanuts (banana-flavored marshmallow candy) to the usual fare of hot dogs, hamburgers and French fries. A professional photographer was roving the audience and asked to take our picture. “Say cheese!” he asked before the flash went off. He got our address and promised to send us the finished photo (for a fee, of course). “That will be a nice memento of your birthday with dear old dad,” my father said, paying the photographer. Cynical me thought, “What if he keeps the money and never sends the photo?” I never did see the photo; I had long forgotten about it afterwards. Daddy and I shared a Cracker Jack as the lights dimmed and the performance began. We were enthralled to see the elephants, the jugglers, the tumblers, the lions and the various clowns make their grand entrance into the middle ring of the circus floor. We were thrilled by the high-wire artists and the daredevil trapeze flyers. Then it happened. Daddy had purchased a hot dog slathered with onions and mustard. When the elephants made their grand entrance into the center ring, marching elegantly and majestically, we noticed a little brown monkey that was sitting on the back of the lead elephant, like a jockey riding a thoroughbred. The monkey was dressed in modern-day flapper attire with a beaded beret on its head. It looked ridiculous, and I remember my father leaning over to the man next to him and saying, “Looks like my mother-in-law!” He was laughing when all of a sudden, he began to cough, gasping for air, his face turning a bright shade of red. “Daddy, are you alright?” I asked, lightly hitting him on the back. He tried to garble, “I’m fine… Just went down the wrong pipe.” But he wasn’t fine. Far from it. His watery eyes began bulging and his attempts at breathing were short and shallow. He grasped at his throat. There was a look of panic in his blue eyes, a look I had never seen before. I gave him my lemonade and asked him to drink. The people next to us yelled, “Is there a doctor in the house?” “Stand back!” someone ordered. “Give him air!” “What shall we do?” another voice shouted. “He’s having a heart attack!” By now my father was slumped over his wooden chair, quickly losing consciousness. His face, lips and fingernails were rapidly turning a ghastly shade of gray. What a frightening, surreal scene it was - our section of the grandstand in the dark, in shock and disbelief, my beloved father slipping to the ground, trying to take what might be his final breath, while I was on my knees, crying, as the merry music from the calliope continued playing. Laughter and sighs of awe erupted every few seconds from the crowd while tears ran down my face. All I could think of was, “I did this. I wanted to come to the circus for my birthday. This is my fault!” I watched as all signs of life left my father. Then, as this terrifying episode played out for what seemed like an eternity, a man rushed to my father. Yes, it was a man; that’s all my mind could process at that exact moment. He loosened my father’s tie, unbuttoned the top button on his shirt, and quickly ripped open his vest. Then he picked my father up from the floor and stood behind him, thrusting with his two arms and hands on my father’s abdomen, again and again, five violent thrusts, my father’s body slumping forward. A spotlight shone on our section of the bleachers. The performance had stopped and the music had ceased playing. I glanced down at the center ring and noticed everyone- the ringmaster, the clowns, the artists and jugglers- were gazing up at us! Flying out of his throat, dislodged from his trachea, came the object that was choking my father- a hunk of chewed wiener, still clinging to a moist piece of bun. Immediately, the color began returning to my father’s face. He coughed again and again, which was a good sign, thick mucus and leftover food particles emerging. “Bring everything up! That’s the way, Mister Greenleaf! You are alive- now breathe! Breathe fresh, clean air!” the stranger commanded. “Let’s get him up!” Several men took my father under his arms and practically dragged him to his feet, setting him in his seat. “I don’t think an ambulance or hospitalization will be necessary,” the stranger proclaimed. “I’ll stay with him until he is fully conscious and feeling more like himself.” It was only then that I recognized the hero who had saved my father’s life- it was Henry, the gentleman in line, the fellow with eight children, the man who could not afford the expensive circus tickets. I didn’t recognize him because he no longer was wearing his spectacles. Daddy was becoming more and more alert as time passed, looking more like himself as the blood and the oxygen were rushing through his body again. Someone got a cue to start the performance again, the happy music blaring from a brass band as though nothing had happened. Henry remained kneeling next to my father, wiping his beady brow with a white hanky. I was ready to thank him for saving my father’s life when a man wearing a trench coat cut in front of me. “Hey, buddy!” he loudly addressed Henry, holding a notepad and a pencil. “I’m a reporter at the Times. Mind if I ask you a few questions?” “A reporter?” Henry replied nervously. “Well, I do need to get back to my family…” “This will only take a minute,” the reporter said. “What made you rush in and save this man? Are you a doctor?” “No. I was a medic in the ‘Great War’. I wanted to be a doctor but my parents couldn’t afford it. I was merely in the concourse, getting popcorn for my children…and, for me too…when I heard someone yell for a doctor.” “Where you from, pal?” “New Rochelle, New York.” “Married?” “Absolutely!” he said. “I have eight children. My family is my life. Speaking of which, they’re going to think I got lost so…” “What sort of first-aid were you administering to this distressed man?” the reporter inquired. “I’ve never seen anything like it before.” “I’m sure you haven’t- I invented it,” Henry said. “It’s my own, personal technique to use on a choking victim. I call it the ‘Heimlich Maneuver’. That’s my name, by the way- Henry Heimlich.” “He was lucky you were here,” said the reporter. “Some things are just meant to be,” Henry reasoned. “Actually, I was waiting in the ticket line with this gentleman and his daughter. He was kind enough to give me twenty dollars so I could take my family to the circus. I don’t know if I would call it ‘luck’ - more like destiny.” ******** More than sixty years later, I was in Cleveland, Ohio, doing an off- Broadway play. Opening night had gone exceedingly well, and I was alone in my dressing room. I was preparing to hit the town with the rest of the cast to celebrate when I heard a soft knock at the dressing room door. A tiny old man stuck his head inside the door. “Hello, Miss Greenleaf? May I come in?” “Yes. What can I do for you?” I asked. “I just wanted to meet you. I’ve been a big fan of yours for a long time,” he gushed. “How sweet! Please come in. I hope you enjoyed the play.” “Oh, I most certainly did,” the gentleman replied. “Would you please sign my program? I would be most grateful.” As I accepted his program, he continued, “I must say, Miss Greenleaf, I wanted to meet you for another reason too. Oh, nothing nefarious, I assure you. Dear Lord, no.” I chuckled as I grabbed a pen from my purse. “What’s your name?” “Henry.” “To Henry,” I began my greeting. “Henry Heimlich,” he finished. I looked up and gasped. “Henry Heimlich? Not ‘the’ Henry Heimlich, the physician?” “The one and only,” he confirmed proudly. “This must be fate, Dr. Heimlich! I’ve thought about you many times over the years. I remember meeting you when I was a little girl. It’s so good to see you again!” I wrote on his program: “To Henry, Nice to see you again.” “You say we met before?” he asked meekly. “Why, yes. You saved my father’s life using your famous technique. It was back in 1925. You were in New York City with your family. Madison Square Garden, to be exact. At the ‘Greatest Show on Earth.” “The circus?” he muttered, a confused look on his face. “Yes. I was just a little girl. You were there in line just ahead of my father and me, with your wife and children. You didn’t have enough money to buy tickets, so my father ‘accidentally’ dropped a twenty- dollar bill on the ground. He pointed it out to you and claimed it was yours, that it had come from your pocket. Don’t you remember?” “I’m sorry. Miss Greenleaf,” he murmured. “I don’t remember the incident. But I do remember your father. Errol Greenleaf was one of the kindest souls I ever met.” “See? Then you do remember! You’ve probably saved hundreds, maybe thousands of lives- directly or indirectly- because of your first-aid technique,” I said. “I can’t expect you to remember one isolated incident.” “And you say I saved his life?” he asked. “Yes, you did. My father was choking on a piece of hot dog. Your swift action dislodged the food from his windpipe. It was like a miracle when you showed up. I never did thank you properly that day. You disappeared into the crowd with a reporter and our paths never crossed again.” “And how is your father now?” he inquired. “He was killed in the war - World War Two, that is. But, because of you, he led quite a happy and healthy life until the war. He was there to walk me down the aisle when I got married. Those are memories that can never be taken away. I owe you much more than an autograph,” I said sincerely. An idea came into my mind as I thanked him. “Listen, we are going out for a late dinner. Would you like to come with us? You could meet the rest of the cast and we could talk some more,” I offered. “That’s very kind of you, Miss Greenleaf,” he said gently. “But someone else should take credit for saving your father’s life in 1925. It certainly wasn’t me.” I stood there, stunned. “Why, it had to be you!” I said assuredly. “I was there. I witnessed everything. I even recall the date- May 5th, 1925. It was a matinee performance. The only thing that confuses me is: how did you know the little girl at the circus was me, the actress?” “Miss Greenleaf, I’ve never been to the circus in my adult life,” he said firmly. “It could not have been real. I was born in 1920. I may have been to the circus during that time…but as a child. And I didn’t have eight children. I have four. And my treatment didn’t exist in 1925. I should know. I invented it.” “You saved my father’s life. That’s all I know,” I persisted. “No, Miss Greenleaf. I tried to save your father’s life…” “Tried? No, you succeeded! You did save his life!” I insisted. “You claimed you were a medic in the ‘Great War’.” “It’s true that I was a medic during the war, but it was World War Two. I was stationed in the European theater, to be exact. In fact, I lived through the infamous ‘Battle of the Bulge’.” “My father died during ‘The Battle of the Bulge’,” I said softly. “I know,” Henry said, taking my hand in his. “I was there when he died. When I asked you how your father was doing now, I just wanted to make sure it was the same Errol Greenleaf who had died on that battlefield. Good old Errol! We were in the same platoon together. He talked about you all the time, how proud he was of his ‘little girl.’” “What?” “That’s why I had to see you, Miss Greenleaf, while you were in Cleveland. I tried to save your father, but he was badly wounded. He died in my arms. “ I nearly collapsed. I found a chair and sat down. “Your father asked me to give you something,” Henry said. “And now I’m able to fulfill his final request.” With that, Henry reached into his coat pocket and handed me a yellow, worn photograph- the same photo taken that day at the circus by the professional photographer. ******** Fate can be a funny thing. Fate can cross the barriers of time, through parallel worlds, worlds we never knew existed. As Henry Heimlich once said, “Some things are just meant to be.” Gregory Smith is a retired medical social worker. He is the author of 42 short stories, 30 of which have been or will be published. His uplifting memoir, titled Stronger Than Bone, was just published by Compassiviste Publishing. Greg is active on social media, including Facebook, X, Bluesky, Instagram and TikTok. He enjoys reading, watching sports and classic movies and listening to oldies music in his free time.

Tonight We Listened to Big Thief’s Vegas in another lifetime we loved only in your mother tongue in this lifetime, there is nothing original about words leaving a mouth no new way to form an i love you or to speak. you sang for me a fishhook soprano renamed me in the language of your desire called my cold fingers home when you couldn’t route the GPS to it tonight, we danced to Vegas you held me with hands born reaching to another’s trembling words we stuffed gaps in lyrics with the familiar vocabulary of limbs your mouth sprouted american bellflower you said make home somewhere you’ll miss i drew a counterfeit stamp over the impossible Ben Glaser is a trans writer and educator based in Philadelphia, where he teaches early literacy. He began writing in the Southern Tier of NY, alongside a dog named after a national park.

After inviting me to join him at one of those East Side Milwaukee taverns that notoriously caters to those who like to imbibe in excess — an offer that I subsequently decline respectfully, Mike shows up in my waiting room later that same day. Like a handful of “special” clients, he maintains a walk-in status at the clinic and is not expected to make appointments. On the surface, he has a menacing appearance: a pockmarked face and the black-brown eyes of a shark. He is known throughout the city for his volcanic emotional outbursts. Despite those things, I have grown accustomed to him, even though I still feel my stomach churn a little each time I see him. Turning him away is out of the question because I’m the only one in the clinic he’ll talk to. He usually needs to talk about the “little bearded Taliban men” and their “robe-covered women in black” who have been the phantoms in his daily life since his return to Milwaukee from Afghanistan in 2020. Several years ago when I met Mike at the clinic for the first time, he had nervously explained to me that he had been wounded in Afghanistan. Shrapnel wounds to his legs had caused his right leg to turn inward, and the left one to point outward, thus making forward movement difficult. Before I met him, he had caught my attention on more than one occasion as he walked down the sidewalks in the area around the clinic. He always reminded me of some poor creature impaled by an invisible hook, a wretched man who, like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, was doomed forever to a mangled appearance. In his case, one that would attract the attention of other pedestrians and motorists, the jibes and occasional ridicule of street punks, and the unlimited fantasies of children. And yet, like the tragic Hunchback of Notre Dame, there was an inner goodness, a special intelligence to this man that I recognized during the first session in my office. His outward appearance, monster gait and all, I have concluded, is a mask, a rough bark that hides what’s beautiful inside. He is much like the paintings of the late artist Alfred Sessler, whose lithographs were peppered with the twisted, supernatural trees of gothic forests, suggestive of weather-beaten human faces, all of those things ravaged and beaten by the forces of Nature. Perhaps it is this very awareness on my part that sustains me each time I zero in on Mike’s mash-potato psyche. “Mike,” I say sternly, betraying my sympathy for this most difficult of alcoholic clients, “Mike, how about telling me what made you slip again after eight months of sobriety?” “I can’t do it anymore, Gary. Megan is making me feel like she’s going to leave me. She bitches about me talking about the war. She’s tired of all of my nightmares and flashbacks. She won’t even be seen with me outside of the house unless it’s at night. I…I hate myself for boozing again, Gary,” he says, eyeing me fixedly. “What nightmares have you had lately, Mike?” I ask. And he tells me about the young man (maybe boy) whom he machine-gunned from his copter as the figure below walked alone across a rocky hill. Mike adds that he could see the man’s entrails fly out of his body as he was slammed against the rocky bluff below as Mike’s helicopter made a close flyover. “I actually saw that Afghani sitting across the counter in the coffee shop at the drugstore the other day when I sat down to have lunch. It … it was him, Gary, I know it. He was even wearing Taliban-style garb, and he looked directly at me, dead-serious like, but then gave me a smile, a big, beautiful smile, Gary — one that tore my heart out!” I notice Mike’s face turning beet-red now, and I know that his eyes will again burst into tears. Behind the grimace of emotional pain on his face, I spot the goodness in his heart. Even when he picks up a potted plant and smashes it against the wall on the other side of my office, I see it. There’s no way he can really hide it from me. Mike stays in my office for most of the afternoon until the pain subsides. We talk about the post-traumatic stress disorder he has suffered from for years now, his relationship with Megan and, outside of his AA sponsor, his lack of true friends. He wonders if we could just be friends one day when therapy ends. “Mike, you know that our relationship is a very special one, a very close one, but not that of just friends. “What I mean to say is, if I should someday bump into you, would you say hello and have a cup of coffee with me?” I want to open up and tell Mike about what I see in him but I recognize, at the same time, my own fear of having such a friend, of the potential burden of a friendship like his. Nevertheless, I tell him that, should we meet after therapy ends, a cup of coffee wouldn’t be declined. “Gary, I’ve decided to not make anymore appointments with you,” Mike says, looking at my eyes to catch my reaction. “You see, I’ve got to make it on my own now, with just my friends,” he adds with a wink. “Alright,” I answer, after a slight pause. “The timing may not be right, Mike, but if that’s your decision, you have the right to make whatever one you want.” We shake hands and walk to the waiting room. “I hope Megan’s at home waiting for me, “ Mike says with a nervous smile as he exits the clinic. Two weeks later and after no further contact with or visits by Mike to my office, my wife and I spend a while sitting out on our screened porch. The early fall air is refreshing; the sky is clear and full of stars. I feel at peace inside as we sit with our arms around each other, letting our thoughts drift. Suddenly, we notice some children from the neighborhood making their way home down our cul-de-sac and the alley along the side of our house. They are talking in an animated way, but we cannot make out their words. They are also looking back down toward the entrance to the cul-de-sac. In the darkness, a large figure of a man moves slowly to the corner, and looks down our street. His massive hulk moves with difficulty. As he comes halfway up the block, Sarah whispers, “ Look at the way that man walks! My God, who is he!” In the shelter afforded by the darkness there on our porch, I turn to her and, with my index finger to my lips, I give her my answer. We then watch in silence as the man with the recognizable gait passes in front of our house and out of sight down the alley. I wrestle with the notion of whether or not Mike again is a captive of his imaginary visions of the Taliban ghost that has been haunting him. Or if it has been the infernal taunting of children that has aggravated him? Or if he was looking for me in what could be his last bid for the friendship that he perhaps hopes to have with me? The following day Megan calls me to ask whether I’ve seen him. I swallow hard and say no. She adds that he’s been missing for a few days when she’s visited his apartment, and has no leads as to his whereabouts. She’s checked Curly’s Bar and she’s driven through areas of town he goes to when he’s binging. “I’ll let you know if he shows up here, Megan.” “Please do, Gary. Oh God, I hope he’s alright!” “Don’t worry, Megan. Mike’s done this two or three times before. He’s a big boy, and he’s learned how to navigate there on his own.” “Thanks.” “I’ll be in touch, Megan.” One, two, three days pass and no sign of Mike at the clinic. Out of a sense of therapeutic responsibility, I decide that I’ll do something I’ve never dreamed of doing before. That evening, after dinner, I tell Sarah about my relationship with Mike and that I believe that it’s my duty to help find him. She runs her hand through her long brown hair, while supporting her head with her other arm on the sofa. Her slender body doesn’t move, except for a nod of her head that signifies to me that she understands. I advise her not to wait up, and I kiss her goodnight, and am surprised by her suddenly grabbing me and pulling me back to her for one of her passionate kisses. By eight thirty, I’m walking into Curly’s. No sign of Mike, but I decide to sit at the bar which is populated by about a dozen or so men and women in their forties and fifties, all of whom appear to have had long-term intimate relationships with the beer mugs in front of them. I feel strange, like some kind of a rare frog in a fish pond. I order a mug of Miller Premium Draft which I later sip slowly, stalling for time. I feel a tap on my shoulder and I swivel around on the bar stool, expecting to see him. Instead, I am face to face with an elderly man who, I would guess, has slugged down mugs all evening, at least. He extends his hand and smiles, like an old friend. I wonder what the hell he’s thinking? What he wants? He just smiles and then, in a speech too slurred to be intelligible to me, expresses some kind of sentiment. I nod and smile back, and give him a wave as I swirl back around to face the bar. I sense him still standing there, obviously not about to leave. “Sammy, it’s time to go home now,” the bartender shouts at the man as soon as he notices him standing behind me. When the man doesn’t move, the bartender makes a gesture like he’s going to come around and personally escort him out of the bar. The man miraculously connects with what the bartender is threatening, and he turns on his heels and manages somehow, at a snail’s pace, to shuffle out of the bar. “ I owe you one,” I say to the bartender who then tells me he’s the owner of the bar, and that, coincidentally, he’s known Sammy ever since. “Oh, you must be Curly?” “Sorry, Dave’s the name. I bought out Curly back in ’98. Curly was just his nickname; he was really bald as a newborn babe. But he was the guy who brought this place up to where it is now. I owe a lot to him,” he said, proudly rapping on the bar counter. “You’re new in here, aren’t you?” “Yeah, name’s Gary,” I say extending my hand. “You must know Mike, Mike LaFond?” “God, yes, but I haven’t seen him for a couple of months or so.” “Any clue as to where else he might be? His wife’s looking for him. She’s pretty panicky by now.” “You some kind of private investigator or something?” “No, we’re friends, that’s all.” “Come to think of it, Gary, this used to be his regular night here. Maybe if you hang around a bit, you might get lucky. Another beer, Jefe?" “Yeah, sure. Might as well quench my thirst if I’m going to wait.” Two beers later and I’m beginning to resemble the others at the bar. I’m still alert but I feel myself fading into the colors, sounds and people there. It’s then that I realize that my drinking these days consists of an occasional glass of wine or two at dinnertime. Mugs of beer, numerous mugs of beer, are really a thing of the past for me, like when I used to jog two miles every day. But now in Curly’s Bar, this is the present. I’m melting into something I haven’t felt in a long time. Someone has put on “Innocent Man” by Billy Joel on the jukebox. The lyrics easily penetrate my awareness and make me feel sad inside. For myself. For Mike. For everyone here at the bar. I remember Sarah and I decide to call her. When she doesn’t answer, I panic, but then I notice that it’s 11:45 PM. It dawns on me that she’s in bed fast asleep by now. I head for the john. I’m hit by the stench of vomit when I enter, so I take a quick leak and exit as fast as I can. As I reseat myself at the bar, I finish up my beer and begin wondering just what the hell I’m doing out at this time on a weekday evening at a place like Curly’s. But here I am, a shrink and all, not connecting with anything here except Billy Joel’s song. I decide to leave and accept my evening’s losses. Kaput, finis! So what if Mike never resurfaces again? I’ve tried at least, and even gone the extra mile here looking for him. On my way to my car parked some two blocks away off on a side street, I see many shadows between the street lights. Unlike when I came earlier this evening, the street is practically vacant. The crowd back at the bar has remained and, I reason, is the only prevailing night culture around here at this hour. Try to retrace my steps back to my car. I turn off the street onto another, only to find that I have erred. I backtrack to the main street and head down another block and, in the distance, there is my ‘2019 Honda Civic. ‘Thank God!’ I think to myself, sensing that special relief one has after spotting their car in a strange airport parking structure after feeling lost with no apparent way out. Half a block to go and my confidence surges, but I’m distracted by someone leaning with his back against a building by an alley separating two apartment buildings. The figure is still, until it turns to look at me. “Hello, Gary,” the familiar voice says. He walks over to me. He’s very intoxicated, and his dark eyes are blacker than ever under the faint street lights. “Mike, are you okay?” “Sure, Gary, I’m just dandy,” he replies, his face grimacing and noticeably tightening. He grabs the front of my shirt and pulls me toward him until my nose shoves into his chin with the sickening sound of something dislocating. “Mike, I’ve been out looking for you tonight! I …I just left Curly’s and …” Before I can finish what I’m saying, Mike spins me around into the alley and slams my back against the nearest wall. Again, he’s right in my face. I’ve lost some of my breath and can feel my pulse accelerating in my head and neck. “You shouldn’t have let me go, Gary,” he growls through clenched teeth. “I wasn’t ready and you, like a fool, agreed to it! They’ve been at it again, the Taliban are following me everywhere, Gary!” Still gasping to regain my breath, I feel faint. Again, I sense the force Mike has as he spins me 180 degrees back around him and into the wall. This time my left shoulder takes the full impact; I fall to the ground in pain. At this point, I am practically pleading with Mike as I glance up and see his elephantine figure towering above in the semi-darkness of the alley. He pauses for a few moments, looking down at me. The last thing I see is the tortured look on his face, as a thunderbolt strike of his heel hits the side of my face, delivering me through the humid night air to the pavement below. As my eyes close out the glimmer of a nearby streetlight, I think I hear, in the distance somewhere, the word “friend” echoing down the empty street — the only thing I’m aware of now in this state of blindness, fragmented but with fractals of visions attempting to emerge, ones never before imagined in my most bizarre dreams, and for the first time in my life I feel a surge of warmth, like an indescribable fusion with Mike, and every other late-evening straggler on the street that night. Call it late-night reverie or a drink-induced epiphany, the effect is surreal. My thoughts race and distance, then connect into patterns that some would describe as due to a concussive brain injury. I am one with Don Quixote de La Mancha, Joan d’Arc and Vincent Van Gogh all at the same time, a place where logical thought is unimportant and where only things of the heart and soul matter. My initial thought races to consider attempting to follow Mike, a crazy notion of uniting with him to soothe his wounded, traumatized soul and magically extract his pain. I instead opt for limping over to my car with racing thoughts of driving off in Mike’s exit route to see if I can locate him. After ten minutes into an unsuccessful mission to find him, I remember my wife back home alone and probably riveted with scary thoughts about my whereabouts. When I arrive home, Sarah is camped out on the sofa, fast asleep, so I cover her with a light blanket and wash up before jumping into bed. Sleep comes fast despite the pain from Mike’s fierce assault, but dreams soon surround me as I collapse into the cocoon of nighttime. At breakfast the next morning, my thoughts center on Mike and the look of deprivation on his twisted, tortured face, the one I witnessed just before he made ground meat of me the night before. I figured that he must be monastic in his lifestyle, looking for friendship to make up for his history of neglect and his consequent attachment disorder. He had told me that he once attempted to live with Megan, but that she eventually left him for a woman she fell in love with. While Mike has not yet fallen into the abyss of having to live on the street, he subsists in a studio apartment just three blocks from the clinic where I met him several years ago. Through some mysterious alchemy, our relationship has cemented over those years. Now, in Mike’s mind, I represent a betrayal of the highest order: as someone who has rejected the part of his being that, brittle to begin with, has now shattered down due to a complex of personal history, the protracted war in Afghanistan, and now through the perceived rejection of his expressed need for friendship that he has admitted to. And so, with this conundrum, I decided that I will have to think hard and fast about how to reel Mike in to another therapeutic alliance. And the answers that I grasp at all fail me. And I know that I too am damaged goods with possible PTSD to boot. At this point, I realize that optimism is not my strongest suit. The clinic churns over the course of the next few months owing to an influx of patients pouring in with all kinds of problems albeit most not with the severity of Mike’s pathology and neediness. I know most all of the patients in our clinic, having sat through and participated in their weekly outpatient staffing. Then, one day, I spotted Mike seated just across from the receptionist. His hair was slicked back, he was clean-shaven, and his clothes appeared clean. By his side, sat a golden retriever mix. I approached him to chat, not knowing how he would act. Mike said, “When you turned me down, I had to look elsewhere. Meet my new friend, Gary,” he said with a wink. “What a beautiful retriever, Mike,” I said. “Mutt is a better word for him, Gary! I picked him up at an animal shelter not far from my apartment. Megan encouraged me to see if I could find a dog, a nice friendly dog.” “And how are things between you and Megan now?” “Well, she stops by to clean and cook for me every now and then — even does my laundry from time to time. Brings her new friend as well, sometimes.” As Mike brings me up to date on those developments, his eyes remain fixed on mine, but I do not detect an angry stare. He pets his dog who remains seated next to him, and Mike all of a sudden smiles and winks again. “You know, Gary, friendship is really good, and one’s got to find it where one can, right?” I nod . “Absolutely, Mike. We all must do that sooner or later.” Mike looked down in a way that reminded Gary of his childhood visits to the confessional to request forgiveness of sins. “I just wanted to see you one last time to say that I’m sorry for what I did to you the last time we met, Gary,” his eyes still lowered as though he is waiting for some kind of absolution from me. “Well, truth be told, Mike, that incident wasn’t really what I was hoping for at the time.” Mike raises his face and looks directly at me. “I came here today to say that, and to say goodbye. And you know that I am thankful for all that you’ve done for me, for all that you’ve had to tolerate because of our therapeutic relationship.” I pause a moment, and say, “It has been an honor and a privilege to know you, Mike.” Without any further comment or closure, Mike got up, nodded at me, and led his dog out of the clinic without looking back. There have been many quiet nights that Sarah and I have shared on our porch, ones lit only by the moon and the stars. And I have had many thoughts about many things related to Mike’s journey through life. Above all, is whether he has finally found some semblance of peace in his otherwise chaotic life. And I wonder if his relationships with his AA sponsor, his estranged girlfriend and his dog have been enough to ward off his demons, his Afghani ghost, his own inherent complexity as just one among the rest of us flawed souls walking the tightrope of life. Funnily enough, it was Mike who taught me about the value of friendship, the burning need for human connection to protect us from the jackals out there ready to consume us whole. *****

It’s a job that most people don’t even know exists, and a job that no one ever admits to working. It’s a job that requires an unseen workforce around the world to live outside any normal concept of time. It’s a job that demands each worker accept a selfless life working alone for the benefit of others who will never know of their existence. And despite all the requirements and demands of the job, every single person who works the job would tell you, if they could tell you, that they were called upon by something greater than themselves to carry on a tradition whose origins have become as distant as a dying star. Take for instance the longest tenured of these workers, Toshie. She is a woman who, at the exact moment the last ray of sunlight dips beneath the horizon marking the beginning of her shift, has no regrets when she clocks in for the final time after a millennium on the job. In that time, Toshie has become a Grandmaster at her craft. But the only people in the world who acknowledge her existence and accomplishments are the other chosen ones who work alone, emulating methods she perfected from dusk until dawn every day of her long life. Toshie removes the clipboard from the wall next to the timeclock and reads through the orders. Tonight is a light night, with only seven orders listed: a sixty-something man one month removed from his most recent facelift; an adolescent girl who has completed her last acne treatment; a middle-aged woman whose hair has started falling out after her third round of chemo for breast cancer; a pre-teen boy who is playing dress-up with his mother’s red lipstick and red high-heeled shoes; a man who just turned forty and was told by his wife that he is the spitting image of his father; a twenty-something young woman who has painted her eight-month-pregnant belly like a moon; and an elderly woman who has chosen not give a reason. Toshie turns to her workspace and opens the crate that holds seven blank panels. She peels off the protective covering, revealing a perfectly flat black surface that holds something deeper than two dimensions. Before she begins, she takes a moment to admire the unadulterated beauty of the pristine panel that is somehow both opaque and transparent. Like the universe itself, Toshie whispers. Filled with nothing and everything all at once. With a sigh that conveys both sadness and pride for what she is about to do, Toshie lays the flat panel on her workbench and begins to mix the proper powders from the myriad of ancient bottles stacked on sagging shelves all around her, taking her time to count out the precise number of liquid mercury droplets needed to create her medium. When the concoction is just right, Toshie pours it into—not onto—the panel and waits for the face of the sixty-something man to come into being like a time-lapse film of a rose transforming from seed to bloom. Once the image sets, she kisses the man’s reflection and slips it into the slot in the wall above her workbench to be delivered to his mirror. Toshie spends the rest of her shift transforming the remaining six blank panels into reflections. Knowing these will be her last, she pauses to admire each one she completes. She caresses the smooth face of the adolescent girl. She gently strokes the last few wispy strands of hair on the middle-aged woman. She brightens the color of the lipstick and high heels to candy-apple-red on the pre-teen boy. She nods and whispers, Yes, you are, to the forty-year-old man. She cradles the belly of the twenty-something young woman in her wizened hands. When, at last, she finishes the final reflection, Toshie closes her eyes and holds the mirror in front of her. Faces from a lifetime of reflections—young, old, male, female, neutral, fluid, happy, smooth, beautiful, ugly, pitted, scarred, weeping, and too often alone, alone, alone—swirl like innumerable galaxies in the universe of darkness that exists behind her lids. Wiping away tears, she opens her eyes, and for the first time in her long and lonely life, Toshie finds herself. Kip Knott is a writer, photographer, and part-time art dealer living in Delaware, Ohio. His work has appeared in Bending Genres, Best Microfiction Anthology, Ghost Parachute, Maudlin House, Milk Candy Review, The Sun, trampset, Vestal Review, Virginia Quarterly Review, and The Wigleaf Top 50. His most recent book of stories, Family Haunts, is available from Louisiana Literature Press.

The brother sits at the table with his older sister, doing his best to eat as loudly as he can. It’s his way of proving to the world that he exists. His sister looks across the table at him, her eyes narrowed. “Do you really have to eat your pretzels like that?” “Like what?” he asks, not even looking up from his snack. She wrinkles her nose, her mouth twisting. She hates the crinkling of the bag almost as much as the sound of his chewing. “Like a freak,” she replies. He snorts. “At least I don’t eat Cheetos with chopsticks.” “It’s a smart thing to do,” she retorts. “That way, I don’t get cheese dust on my fingers.” “The cheese dust is the best part.” She rolls her eyes. “Whatever. You’re so immature.” “I know you are, but what am I?” he says, pitching his voice up to make it clear that he knows, just as well as she does, that despite what their mother has repeatedly insisted, relying on comebacks that were out of fashion when she was in school isn’t going to save them from getting pushed around. And he does. He does get pushed around. His sister sees it happening sometimes, when the fifth graders leave the cafeteria and the third graders rush in. She knows better than to intervene. The only thing worse than getting bullied is having to be rescued from getting bullied, especially when said rescuer is your sister. She lets out a breath, her shoulders dropping. She remembers the third grade. It was, in all honesty, a rather rough year. Far harder than the second grade. Of that she is certain. Her eyes slide back over to him. He’s placing pieces of his pretzels on the table now. Eight years old and still playing with his food. Maybe, she thinks, she should give him a break. Their mother always says it’s her job, as the older sibling, to make sure her brother’s okay, and though she thinks that’s rather unfair, considering most times, he’s the very reason she isn’t okay, she feels the tiniest bit sorry for him. “Look,” she says, the word twining its way out of her mouth like a sigh. “I think we should make a deal: You try to be nicer to me, and I’ll try to be nicer to you. Okay?” He makes a face. Her face. They look so much alike, it unnerves her. “You probably don’t even know how to be nice,” he mutters. The sister frowns. “Yeah, I do. Janna says I’m super nice.” “Well, Janna’s a butthead.” She drops her jaw. “STOP it. I’m trying to help you.” “Why?” he asks, opening his mouth wide enough to reveal the pretzel mush. “Gross,” she says, pulling her workbook away before he can drool all over it. Janna sometimes tells her she should get a dog, but the sister just says she has one already. As if reading her mind, her pseudo-dog scratches his ear. “Ugh.” She drops her pencil on her workbook, the tip of her lead bouncing against the page and leaving a tiny gray scar. “You’re so disgusting.” “What? My ear is itchy.” She watches, her lip curled, as he resumes eating his pretzels. “You’re not even going to wash your hands?” He’s quiet for a moment, as if mulling this over. “Anyway,” he says, as if they haven’t been in constant conversation this entire time. “Okay. Let’s be nice.” She frowns and says, “Okay,” less because she still feels motivated to be kinder to her brother and more because she has long lost the thread of their discussion. “Okay,” he says again. Then, crumpling the empty snack bag in one hand, he breezes past her, dumps his trash, and makes a beeline for his room. She glances down. He left bits of pretzels all over the table. She opens her mouth to call him back, then lets out a breath instead. Perhaps cleaning up his mess can count as being nice. She takes a look at the pretzels. The way they are arranged. Then she sees it. The way he has painstakingly bitten and organized his pretzel pieces to form the words u suck. Taking a deep breath, she lifts her chin and shouts, “MOM” at the top of her lungs. From his room, the brother snickers. His room is a mess. As is his crumb-covered shirt. Years later, when it’s the sister who needs help, the brother is paralyzed, with no idea what to do. It takes a strong-worded lecture from his girlfriend, the best and bossiest woman he’s ever known, for him to muster up the courage to stop by for a visit. He arrives with a bouquet of daisies he bought on the drive over. When his sister opens the door, he all but lobs the gift bag right at her face. Only once she has caught it, her reflexes fast for someone nursing a broken heart, does he realize that might not have been the best course of action. “Sorry,” he says. “You suck,” she replies. He pulls back, then laughs. “I do, don’t I?” She opens her mouth. Thinks for a moment. Then, nodding, she says, “Yeah. Yeah, you do.” For the next three seconds, the two siblings stand at the door. “Come on in, idiot,” she says at last. “I’ve been waiting for you to show your stupid face.” The siblings have never been good at sweet. They grew up savoring what hurt just a bit. It proves they can still feel something, deep down. And they do. They still feel. He resists just a bit as she guides him inside. Their bones crush together as he hugs her and tells her he never liked Janna anyhow. The emotion on their faces—their same, teary faces—tells a story of the best and saltiest love. Born and raised in Hawaiʻi, Kelly Murashige is the author of the award-winning YA novels The Lost Souls of Benzaiten and The Yomigaeri Tunnel, as well as the upcoming adult novel Milkiverse (2027). Her work has been nominated for Best Small Fictions. Though she can be shy, she loves obsessing over books, video games, and strange animals.

A swing on a chain: a Jack and a Jane. See a chain swing is swinging: see Jack pushing, Jane pulling. Feel Jane’s hands on a chain; Jack’s hands are on Jane. Hear Jane’s breath a refrain to Jack huffing in strain. Smell sweat and black rubber: taste salt and rain A swing, a thing, a chain and a Jane, a Jack and a snap! They tumble flat back, buck naked and sore, their bedroom floor. Laughing—a snapped chain: lovers still, Jack and his Jane. T.L. Tomljanovic is a flash fiction writer from Vancouver, Canada. She is a Pushcart Prize, Best Small Fictions, and Best Microfiction nominee, and a founding member of the Pride Roars. She is also, at times, very silly.

*Content Warning for abuse, sexual coercion, suicidal ideation “Rebecca, any other guy would have beat you by now.” Inhale for 4 seconds. “We should both kill ourselves.” Hold for 4 seconds. “YOU FUCKING BITCH!” Exhale for 6 seconds. “Why are you still upset? I haven't yelled at you in 3 days.” Now onto the next exercise. “Oh, do I have to visit you at the ER? I am going to be busy hanging out with my friend.” Lie on your back comfortably. “Oh, do I have to babysit you again?” Curl your toes tightly into your feet, then release them. “You wouldn't have anything without me.” Point or flex your feet, then let them relax. “You will be fine. Let's continue. Circle it good, now.” Squeeze your thighs together tightly, then let them relax. “I wouldn’t be able to choose between you or Natasha.” Suck in your abdomen, then release the tension and let it fall. “I wasn't yelling; I was just venting.” Squeeze your shoulder blades together, then release them. “Well, you had it coming. You bring it out of me. I had to put you back in line.” Lift and squeeze your shoulders toward your ears, then let them drop. “I AM THE MAN! I SAY WHAT GOES!!! You're just the woman! You have to submit to me!” Make fists and squeeze them toward your shoulders, then let them drop. “You're evil.” Make a fist by curling your fingers into your palm, then relax your fingers. “You're troubled.” Scrunch your facial features to the center of your face, then relax. “I just wish that you weren't disabled. It pisses me off that you are. I get sick of always having to help you.” Squeeze all muscles together, then release all tension. “I've never done anything wrong.” Amazing job! You have completed the exercise! Do this at least once per day for maximum benefit. Healing times vary, from a few months to an eternity.

“Beating the Trojans was easier than planning for this crazy Christmas shopping excursion,” mused Eustis out loud, to his fellow Spartans. The week before, the six in the vehicle had a lot to celebrate. The Spartans of Michigan State University prevailed over the University of Southern California Trojans in the Big Ten Championship. Now three of his teammates from the football team, along with two other athletes from MSU, decided to head down from East Lansing to Detroit to take care of their holiday shopping. Eustis’ girlfriend Nell begged off. “You’ll never get everything for everyone on our list,” she insisted. “Just let me take care of everything online, rather than take a voyage to that huge ‘Mall of the USA.’” But the thrill of the hunt, and the challenge to the athlete, could not be denied to Eustis and the other Spartans. As Eustis drove his Ford Expedition, the hulking lineman “Moose” rode shotgun, swearing at every car that sped by or cut them off. Behind him, women’s basketball captain Deb was shouting out navigation directions. One seat behind Moose sat Quince, MSU’s star defensive back, who had the all-important job as D.J. of the S.U.V., ensuring the latest holiday hits were blasting out of Eustis’ stereo. Squeezed in between them was Tiny, the Spartans’ gymnast and floor exercise champion, studying an online guide to the massive indoor mall shopping. Stuffed in the trunk area was Amp, a freshman MSU running back, engrossed in his Nintendo DS. “What a win last Saturday!” Moose relived the overtime victory to win the conference. “That fake field goal attempt totally fooled the Trojans.” Quince laughed. “If we can beat those guys from USC, a little holiday shopping can’t be that hard, right?” The doors to the Mall of the USA opened before them into a giant Food Court. Pangs of hunger gnawed at Eustis’ belly, the PB&J that Nell made for him not quite quelling his hunger. “Ignore them,” Eustis commanded as eager assistants with trays of free samples speared with toothpicks tried to entice the band of Spartans. He had to pull Deb away from the Sushi rolls and Quince from the pot stickers. At the end of the Food Court, the leader of the journey did a head count. 1…2…3…4…and he made five. But where was Moose? Eustis dashed back inside the Food Court. He saw the hulking lineman sprawled out in a large chair in front of “Lotus Eats,” which seemed to be the epicenter of the servers with the free samples. “Hey Eustis!” Moose cried out. “You gotta try these sausage cheeseballs! They’re all free!” The captain of the Spartans glared at his teammate. “Dude, we have to finish….” “C’mon man,” Moose complained. “Just have a sip of this IPA.” Eustis rolled his eyes. “How many of these have you…” Then he caught sight of all of the solo cups littered around Moose’s massive shoes. “Never mind. See ya later.” Moose raised his beer in a toast just like Dionysus, then belched. Now they were down to five. “Where’s Moose?” Amp asked. Eustis sighed. “He’s not going anywhere. We’re gonna need a forklift to get him out of the Food Court, and a cab to get back to…” “Hey!” Deb burst out. “Where’s Quince?” Eustis’ eagle eyes looked across the mall until he saw a forest-green blur. “There he is!” A giant security guard, who wore an eyepatch, pursued the speedy defensive back. “Stop him!” the mall cop bellowed. “He’s a thief!” Quince’s fellow Spartans rushed over to try and help their friend. Before they could get to him, a few Good Samaritan wannabes blocked the Spartan player, enabling the large officer to tackle him. As the cop hauled their friend to his feet, the large man’s one good eye glared at his quarry. Eustis noted that the guard had a nametag, which read “Virgil.” “I’m taking you in for shoplifting,” the one-eyed mall cop announced. “I didn’t steal nothin'!” Quince declared. “Then why’d you run?” Virgil sneered. “What’s your name?” “Nobody to you!” Other cops showed up and dragged off Eustis’ Spartan teammate. “I can’t believe Quince would do that,” Deb waved her hands wildly. “He probably didn’t,” Eustis observed, pointing at Virgil. “He’s got a University of Michigan watch. It’s probably a revenge thing for us beating them by three touchdowns.” “So now we’re four,” Amp groaned. “What could happen next?” They were about to find out. “So we’ve got a quarter of our list done,” Eustis stated. “As long as we stick with the plan….” “Wait!” Amp called out. “We lost Tiny!” Eustis whirled around. “Did someone nab her?” Deb shook her head and pointed at a store behind them, labeled “Capri’s Chords.” “Chances are she’s stuck in the music store,” the women’s basketball player declared. They found the gymnast in the back of the store. With giant headphones over her ears, Tiny was sporting some Virtual Reality goggles. She didn’t seem to notice Deb tapping her on the shoulder. “Tiny?” Amp called out. There was no response. “Tiny!” Eustis yelled. “Oh, hey guys?” Tiny squealed, finally acknowledging them. “You should check this out. It’s like I’m right there at the concert with my favorite group!” Deb explained. “Tiny’s beloved band is Sy and the Wrens. It’s no use waiting for her…she’ll be rocking out for hours in this multimedia experience.” Reluctantly, the three shoppers left Tiny as she continued to gyrate to some beat. “Well, at least the three of us can accomplish our mission,” Eustis claimed as they wandered through the “Home R Us” department store. “We’ve got half of our stuff taken care of.” “Yeah,” Deb backed him up. Amp didn’t say anything. That was because Amp was no longer there. Deb and Eustis scoured the entire store, finally finding their Spartan teammate in the appliances section. “What are you doing here?” Eustis demanded. Amp merely stared in wonder at the refrigerator. “It’s a Whirlpool.” “It’s a what?” Deb gasped. “It’s a Whirlpool 36-inch with 24.5 cubic feet, standard depth, French doors, fingerprint resistant stainless steel….” “You can’t afford this!” Deb insisted. “It’s almost $2,000.” “And that doesn’t cover delivery,” Eustis added. “I’ll get my parents to send me money,” Amp replied, as if in a trance. “It’s my dream fridge. I don’t even want to leave it now that I found it.” “Forget it,” Deb put her hand on Eustis’ shoulder, leading him away. “He’s gone.” Eustis crossed another item off his list. “We’re most of the way there, Deb,” he noted. “We only have an hour left until they close.” “Ooooh!” Deb shrieked. “They have a Sentimental Safari! Can we go in, Eustis? It’ll be just for a minute. I promise!” “Okay,” Eustis sighed reluctantly. But it was too late. Within moments, the women’s basketball player had an Albino Ball Python draped over her shoulders. “I love him!” she cooed. “He’s so smooth. I’m calling him Syla the Snake.” Eustis could only gape. “You go on without me,” Deb offered. “I’ve got to get acquainted with my new friend here.” Eustis left the Mall of the USA, hefting three big shopping bags alone. At least Quince was released when videocameras confirmed his story, though he had split home via the bus, according to his text. In fact, all five friends messaged their leader noting they would be taking different forms of transportation home except Moose. He sent a message in the group chat that he was at Circe’s BBQ. At least he got everything on his list. It was time to head home to Nell. Unfortunately, she wasn’t answering any of his texts. That had him worried. When he got to their dorm, there was no response to his knock on the door. Where was she? All he could hear was a group of men chanting carols loudly. Curious, he peeked outside. There was Nell, cowering in a corner of the building, surrounded by a semicircle of dandies decked out like extras on the set of “A Christmas Carol” movie, singing, no screaming, the loudest rendition of “We Wish You A Merry Christmas.” The glee club wannabes all sported a name on their top hats: “The Suitors.” “Eustis!” Nell called out. “Save me!” The Spartan looked around. Though a football player, it would be one against more than a dozen. Then an idea hit him. At the end of the verse about demanding figgy pudding, he took advantage of the momentary pause. “Hey everyone!” Eustis yelled. “Arrow.com is offering half off on electronics until midnight!” Immediately, the carolers abandoned their helpless quarry and ran for their dorms, apartments, and eventually their laptops. Nell sprang forward into her boyfriend’s arms. “Eustis!” she beamed. “You rescued me!” She kissed him, then noticed all of the shopping bags. “And you saved Christmas too!” “Aww…” he blushed. “It was nothing.” She pointed back to her dorm. “Let’s take T-Mach for a walk,” she offered, referring to her Border Collie. “And you can tell me all about your shopping trip.” “Trip?!” Eustis laughed. “It was a total odyssey!” John A. Tures began writing for the El Paso Herald-Post in high school. He wrote for his college paper at Trinity University in San Antonio and at Marquette University. He earned his doctorate at Florida State University, analyzed data in Washington DC, and is now a Professor at LaGrange College. He writes a weekly column for newspapers and magazines (https://muckrack.com/john-tures/articles). He has published a number of short story mysteries and thrillers. His book Branded, which mixes corporations, media and academia in a thriller. was by Huntsville Independent Press late last year (see more about it here: https://www.huntsvilleindependent.com/product-page/branded) and he has another on the way, an election thriller about a third party candidacy titled “Independent Thought.” He thanks family and friends for listening to his stories. His author site is here: https://www.johntures.com/about-the-author/.